Westminster poem


Westminster station is an impressive sprawling station with endless ceilings and escalators and fluorescent lights, made entirely of exposed cement, some of which is covered in chicken wire. It isn’t beautiful or aesthetically pleasing, not in the least. It is constricting, and it invites a visit as brief as possible. It is unpleasant, but it is a work of art in that it, with a great surgeon’s precision, cuts at the seams of how we live, the working class underground, Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament, above. Old school hierarchy, in the twenty first century, when we’ve been educated about history and we’ve seen the result lying can take. It almost saddens me, that our leaders continue to play Capitalism with the same detachment they play Candy Crush, but it doesn’t. It pisses me off. This is not an episode of Downton Abbey. None of us is getting paid.

Mercury in retrograde poem

Humans are made up of primarily water, which can be subject to the tides, the push and pull of planets and stars, some of whom, but not all, can be seen. We fly through doors, rush across cities, climb mounts, parachute, fall in love, because our stars are aligned, and they can reach us. Memory. Mercury is in retrograde which is why you should keep an eye on pigeons and bottles, and post boxes and phones, and wherever else messages are sent, because Mercury in retrograde means our messenger is stuck on a malfunctioning escalator that is moving backwards, to our original stars, younger and older us
es, awaiting our yearned for reconciliations.

The morning after poem


This morning
following a thirteen hour
basically uninterrupted
sleep induced by a
homemade pizza
I was preparing a coffee
And I did an ordinary thing
Turned on the kettle
And listened to it boil
without paying attention to it
and then when it boiled
and the steam rose
curling and cascading
across the gleaming counter
I had an epiphany
as this metaphor
from life revealed itself
to me:
Art is temperature It
boils (So to speak) our
spirits till they are visible
to us
As this thought came clear
the steam lifted
and disappeared
leaving me feeling awe
and profundity
at such a seemingly
mundane trigger
I remembered
suddenly a red haired girl
I had dreamt the night before
all being pulverized as a cycle of sleep
ended basically uninterrupted
and I wondered
where do we really go when we dream
Our past lives?
Our future encounters?
What do we bring back
How it glitters or snaps
at our feet

It was hidden
and now it is not

It was unfamiliar to us
But now it is not

It used to frighten us
but now it does not


Red stemmed muse poem


It was a windy day
and you were sent by Aeolus
He blew you in this general direction
You had red hair

Your trainers were worn
We met in an East end park
We shared a bench
a plum from your purse
a swirling afternoon

You were a woman
and an artist
Which came first
on your mood
and your generalized

view of the world
for the moment
Which was subject
to the vicissitudes of the weather

You stipulated that even the least
impassioned of women artists
transgress boundaries
boundaries that men can’t see
beyond their Salvador Dali

We met so you may
impart this knowledge
There is fear
when something new
is encountered

But the spirit can take it
needs it
for our expansions

You came leading
a descending chorus
of angels
a music so beautiful
it made me think
of descendants of
Mozart or the nine muses
who sang to poets

in Ancient Greece
But in the end
when I finally mustered
the courage to ask you out
you said you were married
I kissed you anyway
You kissed me back

but then you left
I never saw you again

In and out
of our lives

come and go

looking to slay

Their stays
so brief

Their words
so wise

That our spirits
finally glow

and our hearts
finally know

we ever wondered

Is a question of temperatures -